


The Sweet Science

by rebelxxwaltz



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Boxing & Fisticuffs, Canon-Typical Violence, Comedy, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-19
Updated: 2013-11-19
Packaged: 2018-01-02 02:26:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1051437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rebelxxwaltz/pseuds/rebelxxwaltz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam attempts to turn CID into a healthier workplace, encouraging Gene in particular to slim down and shape up. The only form of exercise the Guv will agree to? Boxing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm (finally) just about finished writing the final part of this fic, so I thought it was about time I started posting it to AO3! 
> 
> The original basis for this story was a viewing of basaltgrrl's portraits of [Sam and Gene as boxers](http://lifein1973.livejournal.com/2043336.html), which were illustrations for Loz's _Changes_ series. These fantastic drawings made me want to write boxing fic soooooo badly... so I did!
> 
> The glorious cycle of LoM boxing fan works has continued throughout the posting of this story, with art that was inspired by it! First came [this glorious example](http://archiveofourown.org/works/645605), again by basalt, which has its origins in the dream sequence near the end of this first chapter. 
> 
> Numerous boxing-related quotations have been used throughout this story, which will be credited at the end of each chapter for anyone who is interested.
> 
>  **Warnings for this chapter:** Attempts at comedy, thinly-veiled lack of boxing knowledge, Rocky inspired dream sequences.

**The Sweet Science**  
Part 1  
  
 _'Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee.'_  
  
  
"No."  
  
"Oh come on, Guv. There must be _something_ \--"  
  
"Is that overinflated brain of yours plugging up your earhole? I said _no_ , deaf-aid!"  
  
Fortunately the bacon sandwich was victim to the brunt of Gene's aggression in this particular case, since it was too cramped in the Cortina for the Guv to manage any acts of bodily harm against Sam himself. Gene chewed violently, shoving the greasy paper wrapper onto the dashboard and taking a large gulp of his tea. He sputtered in a very unbecoming manner, dripping some of the tea onto a necktie that already looked-- by design, Sam was fairly sure-- like it was covered in splotches of some mysterious substance. "What the bloody shagging hell is _this_?"  
  
Sam's head jerked back against the headrest as the white takeaway cup was shoved under his nose, presumably for purposes of direct inspection.  
  
"I asked for six sugars, Tyler. _Six_. Not zero and a sprinkle from your fairy godmother, Wankerella!"  
  
Sighing heavily, Sam sat back and studied the smoke-ravaged ceiling of the vehicle's interior. "You _need_ to cut down. I'd be shocked if you're not pre-diabetic as it is."  
  
Gene wiped his hands on his pants, scowling. "Pre-wot?"  
  
Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. "Never mind. If you just got a bit of daily exercise--"  
  
"For the last time, Dorothy-- I am not, _not_ , going to spend my afternoons watching Skelton prance around in a tracksuit while Ray reasserts his manliness by acting like more of a dumbbell than whatever measly flippin' weights he manages to lift!"  
  
Sam Tyler was a Modern Man, in ways that were frankly unheard of here at the shining dawn of 1974. He was sleek stainless steel in a brown and orange world, an evolved and enlightened creature walking amongst the dinosaurs. Concepts of diet and exercise among his colleagues in CID more or less consisted of fat soaked meals straight from the fryer and the distant, though admittedly motivational, pipe dream of willing women to get the blood pumping. If this were January 2006? Gym memberships would be at an all-time high, the spectre of holiday overindulgence causing a rash of resolutions from citizens promising to greet the new year with increased physical activity and a healthier lifestyle. Television ads for dietary supplements echoed back to Sam from across the void of decades, real or imagined.  
  
The voice of Gene Hunt, real or imagined as _it_ may be, cut across the field of time and directly into Sam's frontal lobe. "I used to box, mind you. Now _there_ is a real man's sport."  
  
"Boxing?" The wheels turned in Sam's mind, taking a steady and mechanical path straight to the vision of a young Gene, built more like a whole block of flats than the proverbial house, bobbing and weaving in a pair of boxing shorts and sporting a facial expression that could melt steel. The image hovered stubbornly, fluttering its wings along a dangerous and unexplored trajectory of thought. Sam's poor overstimulated brain apparently had no discernible instinct for self-preservation. "We could try that."  
  
 **xxxxx**  
  
 _'To me, boxing is like a ballet- except there's no music, no choreography, and the dancers hit each other.'_  
  
  
In the urge for self-improvement, Sam found a transference onto his new existence. He was here in the 1970's to stay, so why not use a few facets of his twenty-first century knowledge to enhance this environment? With that thought in mind, Sam had asked permission from the Super to create a fitness facility in the basement of the station. It was extremely basic, sure-- no treadmills or ellipticals, no spinning machines or flat screens sporting buoyant and toned aerobics instructors-- but he'd found some decent equipment for weightlifting, some mats, and a rather rudimentary rowing machine that looked like some brand of medieval torture device. Now it seemed like he would need to add a punching bag, or else he might end up _being_ one. Not that it would be the first time...  
  
When Sam thought of boxing, it was in disconnected chunks that he had acquired throughout the years, most of which would be utterly anachronistic and therefore unsuitable for use in his current setting. Since his return from the train tunnel certain aspects of the future were a bit fuzzy, and he hadn't known much about the sport to begin with. He knew there were such things as the 'Rumble in the Jungle' and the 'Thrilla in Manila,' was aware that there was something he should remember about Tyson v. Holyfield, but he wouldn't have been able to pinpoint any of the details even working from within the framework of his former life. He had seen _Rocky_ , but Sam was pretty sure that didn't count for much.  
  
The conversation he'd had with Gene about taking back up the gloves somehow resulted in a Friday evening field trip to one of Manchester's better known boxing clubs. Sam supposed that in the hands of the right athlete the sport could be majestic, graceful, a true expression of the power of the physical form. However, this was a hard concept to cling onto after seeing one of Jimmy Sullivan's bloody teeth pinging off the concrete mere inches from the toe of Sam's Cuban-heeled boot.  
  
Eyes fixed on the small chunk of bone, Sam had to raise his voice in order for Gene to hear him over the buzz of the crowd. "Was he not wearing a mouthguard?"  
  
Gene looked confused. "What for? He's fighting Ralphie Wilson from Oldham, not Jack soddin' Dempsey!"  
  
The fight kept on, lasting far longer than Sam had anticipated. There did appear to be a certain amount of strategy involved when he took the time to notice. Wilson bounced around and aimed swift jabs at Sullivan, who was shorter and broader and seemed to find the most success by crowding in and delivering powerful and well-centered punches at close quarters. With or without his tooth, Sullivan went on to win the match. Sam felt that he now knew the true meaning of the phrase, 'You should see the other guy.'  
  
He realized that he had wondered aloud how it could possibly be considered a victory when the winner came out looking like _that_ , as Gene Hunt offered up his flask with a shrug. "Sullivan's a swarmer. It may not be pretty, but he's got a hard chin on 'im. And once he gets in under the other bloke's guard?" Gene made one driving-gloved hand into a fist, striking it sharply against the flat of the other.  
  
Boxing was turning out to be much more complicated than Sam had expected, and so far he had only _watched_. If he squared off against Gene without learning a thing or two first he was going to be in serious trouble. Where was the internet when he needed it? Computers wouldn't even come with a mouse for another six or seven years yet, Sam realized. Taking a swig of single malt, he looked at the Guv's large hands. He had seen them inflict many colorful varieties of damage since the day he met Gene, also coincidentally the same day that he had first been _punched_ by Gene. And soon he and Gene would be punching each other. For _exercise_.  
  
Maybe he was mad after all.  
  
 **xxxxx**  
  
 _'A boxing match is like a cowboy movie. There's got to be good guys and there's got to be bad guys. And that's what people pay for - to see the bad guys get beat.'_  
  
  
That night Sam had a dream, in vivid Freudian technicolor.  
  
The lights beat down on the center of the ring, harsh and bright. Gene was there in the left corner, bare chest glistening with perspiration, wearing shiny blue-green boxing shorts. Ray appeared behind him in a turtleneck sweater and newsboy cap, handing him a towel and proffering a water bottle with a straw at the end. Gene elbowed Ray in the ribs, and the bottle was swiftly replaced with one of Gene's flasks.  
  
In the opposite corner Leslie Johns snarled, obviously out for blood. Sam could practically hear the bones cracking as Johns rolled his neck, adjusting his mouthguard and jamming his wrapped hands back into his bright red boxing gloves. The bell rang for the next round and Frank Morgan appeared, wearing the traditional referee's uniform of white oxford shirt and black bow tie. Morgan gave the signal for the fight to resume, gliding out of the way with a typically sour-faced expression.  
  
The fighters circled each other, locked in a battle of wills. Johns barreled in and delivered a couple of jabs to Gene's jaw in quick succession, but the Guv rolled with the punches and emerged unfazed. The dark-haired opponent continued his assault, becoming angrier each time Gene absorbed a savage blow with unflappable composure. For his part, Gene Hunt was not swiftly dodging to avoid the attacks, merely accepting the punishment and waiting for an opening.  
  
At last Johns made a fatal error, putting all his weight into a powerful roundhouse. With devastating alacrity Gene eluded the punch by a paper-thin margin, using Johns' misplaced momentum and every ounce of his own strength to throw a right cross directly into the center of the other man's face. As if in slow motion Johns spun in a half circle, eyes rolling up into his skull as he crashed onto the mat in an unconscious heap.  
  
Knockout delivered and victory complete, the crowd burst into pandemonium. Sam's dream-self watched in amazement as every suspect he'd ever interviewed, every criminal he'd arrested or bystander he'd passed on the street cheered and celebrated around him. The noise was deafening. Confetti rained from the ceiling. Back in the ring Morgan raised one of Gene's gloved hands into the air, officially declaring him the winner. Ray bounded toward the Guv, clapping him on the back before taking his gloves and helping him slide his arms into a slightly flashy robe made out of the same material as his boxing shorts. Gene was oblivious to the congratulations being showered upon him, looking smug but distracted. His sharp gaze searched the crowd for something-- or someone?  
  
Sam was suddenly aware of his own physical form within the dream, at once relieved to be wearing what appeared to be his usual clothes and panicked because of the chaos erupting all around him. He found himself waving his arms without preamble, attempting to catch Gene's attention. Their eyes met and Sam nearly lost his footing as the post-brawl revelers jostled him to and fro. He couldn't tear his gaze away, watching Gene's mouth as he shouted for him.  
  
"TYLER!!!!"  
  
He was compelled to move forward, seeking a path through the crowd, a way to get to Gene. "Guv? GUV!!!" Sam pushed past Annie and Phyllis, who were drinking huge tankards of beer and chanting with the rest of the CID boys and the Women's Department. Up on the stage Chris Skelton appeared next to Gene, wearing coke bottle glasses and a glittery metallic suit, clutching his microphone like a lifeline.  
  
"Right. So, Guv. Now that you've punched out Leslie Johns-- I mean now that you're The Champ, like-- well, what are you gonna do next?" Chris waited with bated breath, cautiously holding the microphone toward Gene.  
  
"Do? What am I going to _do_?" Gene grabbed the microphone out of Chris' hands and flung it over the ropes into the first row of the crowd, where it clocked DCI Litton square between the eyes. "I'm going to bloody Disneyland, you twat! TYLER!!! Get your arse up here _now_!"  
  
The closer Sam got to the edge of the ring, the more eager he was to reach Gene. For some reason, it was important. "Guv, over here!" Stepping over Litton's prone form, Sam levered himself up onto the platform and shimmied between the ropes. Gene pushed Chris out of the way, sending the younger man crashing into Ray hard enough to knock the hat off of Ray's moustached head. Then, at last, they were face to face.  
  
"Took you long enough."  
  
Gene stood before him in all his pugilistic glory. Bruises were purpling on his slightly stubbled cheek, his hair disheveled and shining golden under the harsh fluorescent light. Sam stepped closer, transfixed, barely aware of the wildness of the surrounding rabble or the numerous projectiles sailing through the air around them. "Gene…?"  
  
They stared at each other, a tense island within the ocean of insanity. Gene made no verbal reply, instead employing a raw physical gambit as he caught Sam's slimmer body up in his arms and attacked his lips with a ferocious kiss. All Sam could hear was the blood rushing in his ears as their tongues collided, hot with the flavor of whisky and violence. One of Sam's hands was fisted in Gene's hair as the larger man pushed him back to the edge of the ring, lifting him against the ropes and sliding one hand down to give his arse a firm squeeze.  
  
This was deliciously out of control, and there was no way Sam was letting go any time soon. His hands wandered, feeling their way along Gene's bare torso and onto the muscles of his back beneath the slippery fabric of the bright blue boxing robe. Gene growled and sucked on Sam's tongue, communicating his appreciation by maneuvering so that their groins ground against each other, rock-hard erections straining through layers of satin and corduroy. Sam threw his head back in abandon…  
  
…and woke to find himself lying on the floor of his dingy flat. His tingling limbs were twisted in the bedsheets in the midst of a damp mess that definitely _wasn't_ composed entirely of sweat, hand wrapped around his cock and bewildered senses still impossibly full of Gene Hunt.  
  
 **xxxxx**  
 **xxxxx**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quotes referenced in this chapter:
> 
>  _'Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee.'_ Muhammad Ali  
>  _'To me, boxing is like a ballet- except there's no music, no choreography, and the dancers hit each other.'_ Jack Handy  
>  _'A boxing match is like a cowboy movie. There's got to be good guys and there's got to be bad guys. And that's what people pay for - to see the bad guys get beat.'_ Sonny Liston


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three more fantastic pieces of art surfaced along with this chapter; two more from basaltgrrl, [Punch-up](http://lifein1973.livejournal.com/2402710.html) and [It's on ](http://lifein1973.livejournal.com/2403198.html), plus [Boxing Boys](http://lifein1973.livejournal.com/2407130.html) by little_cello!
> 
> Warnings here extended to include a caution for something resembling whump, in case that bothers anyone (in this fandom? lol).

**The Sweet Science**  
Part 2  
  
  
 _'Sure there have been deaths and injuries in boxing, but none of them serious.'_  
  
Sam Tyler walked into CID on Monday morning with a black eye.  
  
Making his way through the incident room, he ignored a few mildly curious glances and almost managed to make it to his desk before Gene could be heard bellowing for him from the den-like sanctity of his office. "Tyler! Get your scrawny arse in here on the double!"  
  
There was something hauntingly familiar about the Guv's demanding summons. Sam chewed the inside of his lip as he marched across the tiled floor on auto-pilot, stubbornly ignoring errant visions of bare fight-flushed skin draped in blue satin and refusing to feel the ghostly bite of rough rope digging into the small of his back.  
  
Looking surprisingly fresh and clean-shaven, Gene was perched attentively behind his desk with a cup of tea in one hand and the un-knotted atrocity of his necktie slung haphazardly around his upturned collar. Sam idly wondered whether the Guv had even been home, or if he had kipped in his chair and groomed himself right here at the station. Paperwork was spread out atop the desk in what Sam now recognized as Gene's own proprietary blend of careful organization, which would look exactly like total chaos to the unschooled observer.  
  
"Kind of you to join us, Marjorie. Unbeknownst to your lazy lost-weekending off-duty carcass, crime continues to plague the streets of our fair city. I need whatever you've got on that car park murder, quick as you like. There's-- sweet jumpin' _Jesus_ , what happened t'your eye?"  
  
Hand shooting up involuntarily, Sam gently prodded at the junction of his cheekbone and eye socket. "Nothing, Guv. It's fine."  
  
Sam _had_ been off-duty all weekend, which initially seemed like a pleasant change of pace. On Saturday he'd slept fairly late, needing the extra rest after Friday night's… dream-related incident. He'd obviously been overdoing it and simply got his wires crossed, because there was no way that Sam was about to admit that he was turned on by men hitting each other-- especially if one of the men in question happened to be Gene Hunt. In any case, the dream was probably just a muddled subconscious projection of something that he needed to get out of his system, and exercise could work wonders as a stress-reliever.  
  
For this reason, Sam had found himself making a return visit to the boxing club on Saturday afternoon. He had intended to try and procure some equipment, possibly to ask a few basic questions about styles and training techniques. Apparently the universe had other ideas for Sam, because he had somehow been roped into a highly involved conversation with one of the nosiest old men he had ever met. After a veritable Spanish Inquisition concerning Sam's own knowledge and skill level the white-haired man, who turned out to be one of the senior trainers, finally cut to the chase. The remainder of the experience had left much to be desired, from Sam's point of view in any case.  
  
 _xxx_  
  
 _"Got some lads who want to train, then? Why not just bring them here and let me sort 'em out?"_  
  
 _Sam cringed, trying and failing to shrink the hugeness of Gene Hunt within his mind down small enough to fit the term 'lad.' His imagination remained a traitor against him, wildly picturing a petulant full-sized Gene in short trousers, jumping up and down and demanding a packet of sweets. "They're not exactly lads, and it's not serious training. Just, you know, fun and a bit of exercise."_  
  
 _The man regarded him skeptically, a shrewd glint of one grey eye betraying a slightly devious nature. "Fun, is it?" He turned, voice booming across the training gym. "George! Fetch a set of gloves and some kit for Inspector Tyler. He's just signed up for a lesson!"_  
  
 _All of Sam's protests fell on deaf ears, and ten minutes later he found himself standing before a bemused George and the old man. Sam's attire consisted of his vest, some spare boxing shorts of dubious origin, and a set of light training gloves._  
  
 _"What d'you say, George? He's small, but wiry strong."_  
  
 _The two men circled around Sam, who felt distinctly like a side of beef on display. "Dunno, Bern. Seems a bit scrawny to me. Probably run away at the first sign of a real fight."_  
  
 _Sam shifted around, keeping both men in his direct line of sight. Instinctively, he raised his gloved fists. "Would you stop talking about me like I'm not 'ere?"_  
  
 _'Bern' chuckled, stopping in front of Sam. "No, no. He's got bottle, does Inspector Tyler. Mental toughness and internal fire. You a southpaw, lad?"_  
  
 _Brow creasing, Sam relaxed his stance slightly. "Erm, no. I'm right-handed..."_  
  
 _"Then stop standin' about like a slack-jawed lummox and lead with yer weaker side."_  
  
 _In short order Sam was manipulated into the proper stance, and shown a few basic punches and defense moves. He practiced for awhile, getting used to the postures and motions. "Seems easy enough."_  
  
 _A small audience had formed, composed of boxers ranging widely in age and size, apparently intrigued by the personal attention Sam was receiving. The old man smiled mildly, gaze drifting to the cadre of fighters. "Does it now? Well then, who would like to spar with Tyler here?"_  
  
 _Everyone raised their hand._  
  
 _Sam lowered his fists slowly, color draining from his face._  
  
 _Bern clapped Sam on the shoulder, causing him to jump. "Don't worry, Inspector. Remember, it's just for **fun**."_  
  
xxx  
  
And with that, Sam Tyler had been taught an important lesson about boxing-- even when the sport is recreational, _there is still another man trying to hit you_. To be fair, they'd all been very good-natured about it and hadn't laughed at him too much. The youngish trainee that had delivered the jab had been apologetic, offering a cold compress and a swig of paint-stripping whiskey after the fact. Bernie had even invited him back to keep training if he fancied it, apparently sensing some buried aggression within Sam that translated as potential. Sam felt that the black eye had been worth it, considering how much he had learned. Gene, on the other hand, was regarding him suspiciously.  
  
"Somebody been givin' you a hard time, Sammy-boy?" He tilted his head to the side, narrowing his eyes as he studied Sam's bruised face.  
  
Giving a short laugh Sam smiled and averted his gaze, touched and amused by the irony of Gene's protectiveness. "No, Guv. It's really nothing to worry about."  
  
Gene pouted, laying his hands flat on the desk. "Who said anything about worrying? Just don't want you dragging down my reputation. Can't have my DI walk around lookin' like he spent the weekend as some git's namby-pamby punching bag!"  
  
Suddenly Gene was up from his chair. After his impromptu boxing tutorial Sam found himself to be keenly aware of the fact that Gene Hunt moved with almost shocking agility for a man of his size and build. Sam watched with what he hoped was a carefully detached expression as Gene whipped his necktie into a slightly crooked half-Windsor, turning abruptly and looking Sam directly in the eye. "Next time you're looking for a punch up, Tyler, it had better be with me. At least I know how to hide the bruises."  
  
With that the Guv grabbed his coat and swept out of the office in a fug of latent anger and aftershave, leaving Sam to wonder if his disordered mind had been imagining the predatory longing floating just behind the surface of Gene's aggressive gaze.  
  
 **xxxxx**  
  
' _All the time he's boxing, he's thinking. All the time he was thinking, I was hitting him.'_  
  
By beer o'clock Sam had stopped finding Gene's abuse, physical and verbal, charming or titillating in any way. He'd been shoved, shouted at, insulted, kidney-punched, emasculated, and growled at. He'd even had a close call early in the day where being pinned up against the brickwork around the corner from a crime scene by a menacing and wild-haired Gene had given him a raging hard-on, which surely only went unnoticed due to the speed with which Gene stalked away once he was finished manhandling his second in command.  
  
The moment had been an eye-opener for the smaller man; concrete proof in the waking hours that he was-- _God_ he was attracted to Gene. The scrunch of leather glove against leather jacket was the most erotic sensation Sam could remember from anytime before or since his arrival in 1973, and he'd been so completely engulfed by the illicit pressure of Gene's upper body mashed against his own that he had no idea what had been said. Probably something derogatory about procedure, or perhaps another diatribe concerning fairies from Hyde. Regardless, Sam was left gasping heavily and leaning against the wall for support, still feeling the imprint of the Guv's bruising grip on his biceps and wondering what exactly he had done to provoke Gene's rancor to such a degree.  
  
As CID emptied out, its constituents seeking the more beer-soaked pastures offered by their friendly local publicans, Sam reached under his desk and extracted the gym bag full of boxing equipment he had brought with him that morning. There was no way in hell he was going to encourage Gene to spar with him after today's rash of mistreatment; Sam might be stubborn, but he wasn't stupid. For his own part Sam felt keyed up, restless, his confusion over Gene's rough treatment and his own reaction filling him with nervous energy. He looked down to where his fingers tightly clutched the handle of the bag. There was no sense in letting his preparations go to waste, was there? Some exercise was probably just what he needed, and he could practice what he'd learned over the weekend. Decision made, Sam turned left and went past the lift, jogging down the stairs to the basement.  
  
Luckily Sam's polite suggestions that his colleagues utilize the fitness equipment had not been very effective thus far, and the workout area in the basement was empty. There was a small room off to the side where he'd placed a few lockers and a bench, so Sam stowed the gym bag and quickly changed into a t-shirt and the shorts he'd acquired at the boxing club-- freshly laundered, of course. Bern had also given Sam a speed bag and the fittings to install it, but he hadn't had time yet. Hopefully he would be able to find a heavy bag as well, but for now he'd have to make do without.  
  
After stretching a bit to warm up, Sam put on the training gloves and tried to remember all the different punches he'd been shown. Jabs, crosses, hooks, uppercuts… he imagined himself evading the return strikes of an invisible opponent. WIthin minutes he had worked up the beginnings of a sweat, skin glowing from the exertion. The release of energy relaxed Sam as he concentrated on his movements, calculating how his attacker would react to certain punches, trying not to over-think his footwork.  
  
"Well pinch my cheeks and call me Muhammad Ali. I've seen Sam Tyler shadowboxing and the bloody shadow won!"  
  
Sam jumped, startled. He had been entirely focused on his workout and hadn't heard anyone enter the room. Of course Gene Hunt could be surprisingly stealthy when he wanted to be, especially in the absence of his unmistakeable camel coat. He was leaning against the unfinished doorframe in his shirtsleeves, arms crossed over his chest. Sam tried to disguise his surprised reaction by hopping up and down a few more times before turning to face Gene. "What are you doing down 'ere? Come to thump me a few more times?"  
  
"I thought that was the point. You're the one who suggested boxing if I recall correctly-- which I always do." Gene stepped further into the space, slowly surveying the mats and gym equipment much in the same way he would examine a crime scene. "Well? Let's have 'em then. Chop chop, Inspector. I haven't got all night."  
  
Brows knitting above perplexed honey-brown eyes, Sam shook his head. "Have what?"  
  
"Pair of boxing gloves. Come on, someone as annoyingly thorough as you must have brought another pair. Where you hiding 'em?" Gene stalked around like a caged animal, finally noticing the door against the opposite wall.  
  
Not particularly keen on being served yet another beating by his superior officer, Sam let out a slightly manic chuckle. "You must be joking, Guv. You can't exercise in those clothes!" Sam's voice gradually rose in volume as Gene disappeared into the makeshift locker room. Waiting apprehensively, Sam heard some rustling noises. After just a few moments, Gene re-emerged.  
  
"The hell I can't. Believe me when I say this, Tyler. I can knock you down six ways to Sunday and out Monday's nose without even breakin' a sweat."  
  
Sam swallowed heavily, taking in the incongruous sight before him. Gene was standing across the room in trousers and shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbow and tie removed. He had donned the boxing gloves and adopted a typically arrogant pose-- back straight, hands on hips, chin jutting out and blonde head tilted to the side with an air of unflinching confidence.  
  
"Guv, this is supposed to be about fitness, not violence. I don't--"  
  
"Oh, right then. By the looks of your face, you had enough of _violence_ at the weekend." The larger man stalked closer, invading Sam's personal space as only Gene Hunt could. "That how you get your kicks while you're off duty, Sam? I knew you were a strange bloke, but I never would have guessed you were _that_ kinky."  
  
He was just being flip. Of course he was. Never mind the fact that he was breathing Sam's air and visually dissecting him like a professional detective who very plainly had _not_ found his DCI badge in the bottom of a Lucky Bag. However, after a whole day of being pushed around and humiliated, Sam was at the end of his rope. In a flash of fury he widened his stance, wound his arm back, and launched a wild punch toward Gene's head.  
  
The attack was easily sidestepped, and Sam caught a brief glimpse of Gene's smirk before his senses were overtaken by the round and familiar sensation of a ruthless fist driving into his midsection. Sam drew in a sharp breath, managing to roll back from the punch just enough to stay on his feet. There was force behind the attack, but it felt different with the boxing glove there to cushion the blow. Just as Sam had managed to steady himself Gene threw another punch, glancing off Sam's jaw as he quickly jerked his head aside.  
  
Sam had all but forgotten the small amount of training he'd received at the boxing club, the knowledge eclipsed by rage and adrenaline. He managed to land one sloppy cross in the vicinity of Gene's ribcage, but his second attempt to connect with the Guv's face was soundly blocked. Gene batted at him with his fists again, jabbing him in the shoulder almost playfully. Sam felt like a ball of yarn at the mercy of a slightly bored lion, and the implication that his unwanted opponent wasn't taking him seriously increased his annoyance by degrees.  
  
"Come on then. Hit me." Gritting his teeth Sam threw his arms out to his sides, leaving himself wide open.  
  
Gene narrowed his eyes, peering at Sam with a quizzical expression and fists held at the ready.  
  
"Well? Stop messing about, Gene. Do what you came to do or piss off." He struck out, shoving at the top of Gene's chest near his collarbone, provoking.  
  
As a means of retaliation Gene stepped even closer, broad frame looming. Sam could feel the heat from his body through the thin material of the t-shirt he was wearing, and stubbornly ignored the tingles shooting up and down his spine. "What's the matter, Tyler? Not my fault you can't keep up."  
  
Snarling, Sam wound up and punched Gene squarely in the jaw. He'd been lucky enough to catch the other man by surprise, and Gene reeled back from the impact. "I've had enough, Guv. You've been up my arse all day." Sam's arm flailed, gesturing toward his own black eye. "Is it this? Huh? Typical Gene bloody Hunt. Throwing a tantrum 'cos someone else played with your toys?"  
  
Gene punched back, a serious punch this time, smashing his fist into Sam's already bruised cheekbone with pinpoint accuracy. With a pained cry Sam crashed back against the slightly battered weight bench, gloved hand covering the damaged part of his face. He could see the tip of one oddly menacing white loafer out of the corner of his other eye.  
  
"If I'd been up your arse you would know it, Gladys. You wanna fight?"  
  
Sam flinched as an object was thrown from Gene's direction, hitting him in the abdomen. Straightening, he realized that Gene had taken off one of his boxing gloves and thrown it at him. Beyond the threshold of pain, Gene's words didn't even register. Sam's attention was rooted in the physical, the air thick with gladiatorial tension. The two men stared each other down, both breathing heavily. After a long moment Gene removed his other glove, eyes glinting dangerously across the dimly lit space.  
  
"If you wanna fight, stop prancing like a little girl and fight like a man." The other glove was thrown with equal disdain, hitting Sam square in the chest.  
  
It was like the ringing of a bell for the next round in this violently out of control pretense of a boxing match, and the two men charged at each other simultaneously. Sam was almost entirely sure this couldn't rightfully be _called_ boxing anymore. It was more like the controversial mixed martial arts he remembered from the future, but with the last tiny screaming sliver of sportsmanship carefully excised and then stomped on repeatedly.  
  
They were punching and scrabbling at each other, and Sam felt the improperly delicious sting of the blows as they rained down. He watched Gene in disconnected flashes; blonde hair whipping around his face, shirt collar now ripped open with the top two buttons hanging by precarious thread-- had _he_ done that…? Sam kicked out with one leg, trying to push Gene far enough away to get a decent punch in. Instead, he threw himself off balance and ended up with both arms pinned to his sides and Gene's breath hot against his ear.  
  
It was a strange time to start recalling these future memories that he'd hardly had in the first place, but with Gene's arms gripped around the outside of his shoulders Sam finally remembered the mayhem of Tyson v. Holyfield. The two men caught in a deadly clinch, iron wills battling until Tyson insanely took a bite out of Holyfield's ear. As he felt his back hit the rough concrete of the wall, Sam was oddly tempted to do the same-- or at least something very similar.  
  
Sam struggled, trying to free his arms but only succeeding in ending up with them sandwiched against Gene's sides. Apparently intent on battering him into submission, the enraged DCI pulled Sam forward and slammed him back against the wall a second time. That was when the whole game changed, as the smaller man's lower body twisted only to find Gene's rock hard erection pressing against his own stiff, overexcited cock.  
  
Gene froze, breathing harshly over Sam's shoulder with his forehead pressed against the wall. They were still grasping at each other tightly, but the brutal embrace had taken on a new flavour. Sam was glad that his hands were still encased in the boxing gloves. If they had been free, the urge to drag his fingers over the tense planes of Gene's back would have been too great to resist. Instead he remained still, hips jerking involuntarily as Gene squeezed his shoulders just a bit tighter.  
  
He knew Gene felt it too, that decadent spark, shuddering out a low groan and grinding his hardness against Sam's in a moment of total abandon. That moment couldn't last, however, not here in this basement in 1974. Not with Gene Hunt. Of all the realities Sam had ever imagined, he most keenly felt the bitterness of losing this one before it had even properly begun. Every nerve ending crackled as Gene hauled off and punched him in the stomach, grabbing Sam at the elbows and hurling him halfway across the room. Gene stalked off without saying a word, shirttails hanging out of his trousers as his footsteps echoed their way to the stairwell.  
  
For his part, Sam had no idea what to think. He lay on the floor, bruised and battered, finally beginning to feel intense blossoms of pain and the return of relative sanity through his haze of lust and confusion. And hold up-- what the _fuck_ had Gene said about being up his arse? Sam sighed brokenly, covering his face with one forearm. After waiting a few minutes to catch his breath and allow his arousal to subside, Sam slowly rose and went to gather his things from the locker room, swallowing heavily when he came upon the sight of Gene's necktie laying in a careless heap atop Sam's own neatly folded stack of clothes.  
  
 **xxxxx**

**xxxxx  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who wants to know, the boxing match between Mike Tyson and Evander Holyfield referenced here is actually known as Holyfield-Tyson II (1997). Tyson bit Holyfield on both ears during the course of the fight, in one case tearing a chunk of cartilage off the ear and spitting it onto the floor of the boxing ring. As a result he had his boxing license revoked and was fined three million US dollars. 0_o
> 
> Quotes: 
> 
> _'Sure there have been deaths and injuries in boxing, but none of them serious.'_ \--Alan Minter  
>  _'All the time he's boxing, he's thinking. All the time he was thinking, I was hitting him.'_ \--Jack Dempsey  
>  Also paraphrased was the quote _'I've seen George Foreman shadowboxing and the shadow won,'_ which seems to be commonly attributed both to Muhammad Ali and to George Foreman himself.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of the warnings for this chapter will look pretty familiar, with a couple additions: Attempts at comedy, thinly-veiled lack of boxing knowledge, period-accurate offensive commentary from Ray, smutty goodness (Do I need to warn for that? No? Okay).
> 
> This fic was supposed to be complete at 3 parts, but the final installment got a bit long and was split into two chapters. The conclusion will be posted here as chapter 4 very soon. :D

**The Sweet Science  
(first half of) Part 3**  
  
 _'They can run, but they can't hide.'_  
  
In typical Neanderthal fashion, Gene appeared determined to deal with the encounter in the exercise room as though it had never happened. He may have been more curt than usual with Sam as the week wore on, but it was difficult to tell with a man who often communicated with pointed glares and gruff monosyllables. Oddly enough, Sam's injuries had seemed to earn him more respect than usual from the rest of CID, and on Thursday night at the Railway Arms he found himself being bought a drink by Ray of all people.  
  
Sam was exhausted from what felt like a month's worth of over-thinking crammed into the past three days, but the unwritten rules of the pub dictated that accepting a round meant you were required to engage the round-buyer in conversation or at the very least lend an ear to their proselytizing. Therefore he rallied the shredded scraps of his polite interest as he waited to discover down which road of offensiveness DS Carling would be driving them tonight.  
  
"Bunch of poofs."  
  
 _Oh joy_ , thought Sam, _that's an encouraging start._  
  
Ray jerked his head toward the television set mounted on the wall, and Sam reluctantly followed his line of vision. On the screen was what appeared to be a highlight reel of a sporting event. Sam wracked his brains. There had been a World Cup in 1974, but surely no Olympics-- back in the seventies the Winter and Summer Games had still taken place in the same year, and the 1972 Summer Olympics were famous for the Black September massacre. His brow creased thoughtfully. Hadn't there been a film about the Munich Games, back in the future? The memory was a bit hazy, but he was sure he and Maya had watched it together.  
  
Mistaking his confusion for a thing far simpler than it was, Ray interjected helpfully. "Commonwealth Games. All the way down in bloody New Zealand."  
  
Nodding, Sam watched the athletes on the screen. At the moment, it was showing men's diving. Beside him, Ray made an outraged noise, scowling.  
  
"Look at what those twats are wearing. Takes them 5 seconds to jump off the soddin' platform, and they probably spend the rest of the day starin' at each other's todgers!"  
  
Sam sighed wearily as the sergeant watched the Speedo-clad athletes with contempt. "Ray, if they wore looser swim trunks, the shorts would fly off as soon as they hit the water at that speed. Believe me, they're doing you a favor."  
  
"Trust _you_ \--" Ray's abusive retort died beneath his quivering moustache as the highlight reel moved on from diving to boxing. "Here we go! A sport for _real_ men."  
  
 _A sport for real men_. It was the same thing that Gene had said in the Cortina, not even a week ago. Sam tried to concentrate, watching the slightly grainy action on the television screen and ignoring Ray's rant about how Ugandans and Indians weren't properly British and shouldn't be allowed to compete, but he couldn't focus. _A sport for real men_. Men like Ray tended to paint these things in bold strokes of black and white; if you were a man you drank whisky, watched western films, joked with your mates in the pub and tried to pull the birds. Nowhere in that testosterone-soaked litany did there seem to be a place for shuddering in unbearable pleasure as another man rubbed his erection against your own, so what sort of a man did that make Sam?  
  
 _Real, unreal…_  
  
There had been plenty of times since his arrival in this era where Sam had walked the tightrope between reality and hallucination, playing a dangerous game of chicken with his own sanity. This time, though, it wasn't the Test Card Girl who was making him dream of kissing Gene Hunt. There was no Frank Morgan or Tony Crane to blame for the way he felt when the other man touched him, or the fact that their heated skirmish only left him wanting more. No, this time the madness was all of Sam's own creation-- no excuses, no escape. He was probably lucky that Gene had been more or less avoiding him, because Sam had been to the edge more than enough times to know when he was ready to take a flying leap.  
  
Sam focused on the boxing highlights, grasping at Ray's offensive commentary in the hope that it would provide some level of distraction from his wildly racing train of thought. Perhaps he could redirect his energy into a burst of righteous indignation strong enough to overshadow the violently erotic images, for a time at least. Of course, Gene chose that moment to walk through the door of the pub looking irritated and windswept and most likely in dire need of a Scotch.  
  
Their eyes met from across the room, and Sam felt everything around him slow down. Sound traveled as though the air were laced with molasses, the boxing commentary floating along heavy and thick. Gene's expression was unreadable, and Sam wasn't sure whether the Guv was actually staring for far too long or if it was a trick of Sam's own distorted perception. Before he had time to think about it Gene had approached the table and thrown himself into the chair next to Ray, as far away from Sam as possible without being obvious. _And so,_ Sam thought, _the avoidance continues…_  
  
Gene huffed, looking too big for the furniture just as he always did. He glanced around, and Sam could somehow tell that he was making a full assessment of his surroundings with a subtlety that most people would not believe him capable of. There was a time when Sam himself would not have believed it; Gene and 'subtlety' were words that hardly belonged in a common language, never mind the same sentence-- unless accompanied by a preface such as 'lack of.'  
  
Seemingly satisfied with the status quo of the Railway Arms at beer o'clock, Gene peered briefly at the television. "What are you two girls talking about then? Shortage of frilly pink boxing gloves in Hyde?"  
  
Ray snickered, latching onto Gene's teasing comment and running with it. "Near enough. Boss here was just defending the athletes' rights to ogle each other's tiny swim trunks."  
  
Rolling his eyes, Sam crossed his arms and remained silent with his eyes fixed on the telly, refusing to take the bait. Ray's company could be unpleasant enough on its own so-called merits without adding their superior officer into the equation. Once Carling started trying to impress the Guv, Sam could easily find his tolerance pushed to the further boundary of its limits.  
  
As usual, Gene seemed more than willing to indulge his sergeant. "That so?" He grinned absently, leaning back and lighting a fag. "Well you've got to remember that where DI Tyler comes from they do things a bit _differently_ , eh Raymundo?"  
  
Scowling, Sam tried to ignore Ray's unbecoming chuckles. He was surprised to find Gene regarding him closely, watchfully, as if waiting for a reaction. Sam narrowed his eyes, rising from his chair. He wasn't about to give those intent green eyes the satisfaction of watching him squirm, no matter how hot they might feel on his skin. He managed to keep his voice steady even around what felt like his heart lodging squarely in his throat. "I don't have to listen to this." He turned away from the table, briefly seeing Gene's frown out of the corner of his eye.  
  
"Oi, mine's a pint," was the shout at his retreating back.  
  
Empty glass in one hand, Sam stalked over to the bar. Ordering another Scotch, he chatted with a concerned Annie as she waited for her house wine and Phyllis' port and lemon. Downing the whisky in one go as Nelson handed it over, Sam left the money for his tab on the bar and swiftly headed for the exit.  
  
 **xxxxx**  
  
 _'If you even dream of beating me, you'd better wake up and apologize.'_  
  
It was exactly the time of night where it was often nearly impossible for Sam to sleep. His commitment to this world notwithstanding, he'd always been a light sleeper and that was doubly the case when there was something on his mind. Something, or someone. The Test Card Girl no longer haunted him with the semi-lucid nightmares of old, but the rapidly colliding thoughts of the real people in his life made it even more difficult for Sam to achieve any rest.  
  
Sam pillowed his hands under his head, elbows pointing outward. There had been a time when he thought he had come back here for Annie-- for her love, for the chance to be with her. Yet somehow after the second or third date, the sixth or seventh kiss, that relationship had stalled with all the grace and ambiguity of a flooded outboard motor. Her decision, mainly. Sam himself had still been too oblivious back then, when she had looked at him with an oddly resigned sadness and hugged him much the way a sister would. God, she had _known_. She had known before Sam himself that the thing that shone the brightest through his uniquely distorted lens onto this world was _Gene_.  
  
Images and sensations flashed across in the half-light of Sam's consciousness, brighter than his past hallucinations, more vivid by magnitudes than the unrelenting technicolor of his recent dreams. Rich and warm hues of Gene with his golden hair, striding toward the sun-burnished Cortina. Gene's glove-clad hands gripping the steering wheel, leather creaking and shining in the fading daylight. And oh, the indescribable feeling of Gene's body pressed against his. Fleeting pressure, intoxicating heat, the flash of slightly unhinged aqua-emerald eyes and Gene's undeniably hard cock sliding against his own, swiftly replaced by an unforgiving fist driving into Sam's midsection.  
  
Sam shifted uncomfortably beneath his blankets, exhaling heavily and running a frustrated hand through his hair. Neck stretched and head thrown back against the too-flat pillows, he determinedly ignored the growing hardness in his shorts. Staring resolutely at the ceiling, Sam refused to surrender to the ghost of that forbidden arousal. He had overcome his own apparent madness, the insanity and impossibility of his 1973 existence. He would beat this, too-- surely it was just a passing attraction, a brief and rectifiable glitch. Sam nearly smiled at the realization that even now, after everything, he was still fighting against Gene Hunt. He would probably never _stop_ fighting, toward whatever end…  
  
At this point, of course the exasperating nature of the universe dictated that there would be a knock at the door. More accurately a series of violent knocks, accompanied by slightly slurred shouting. "Oi! Open up, Tyler! Police!"  
  
A pause. Some shuffling, counterpointed by the sound of Sam's own pulse hammering at his temples.  
  
"I know you're in there, Sam. Let me in or I'll break it down!"  
  
Sam really couldn't afford a new door right now, especially after buying all that boxing equipment. He knew Gene wasn't bluffing-- the easily-splintered doorframe had needed repair twice already, much to the chagrin of his disapproving landlord. Rising quickly from the bed, Sam pulled on his discarded trousers and willed his stubborn erection to subside. "Keep your hair on, I'm coming," he grumbled, wondering what the other man could possibly want at this hour of the night.  
  
He undid the bolt and opened the latch, momentarily confused as to why Gene was not standing directly behind the door as expected. Sam soon realized that this was due to the fact that he had not answered speedily enough, and his drunken DCI had decided to shoulder charge his way into the flat. Unfortunately with the obstacle of the door already removed, Gene barreled directly into Sam instead.  
  
The two men went down, landing in a heap of tangled limbs and camel hair. They were lucky enough that at least there had been no furniture in the way. Somehow one of Sam's arms had ended up pressed against Gene's side within the unbuttoned coat, and one of Gene's leather-clad hands was splayed at Sam's hip as the other fortuitously met with the floor and stopped Gene's substantial bulk from crushing the smaller man completely. For several moments there was nothing more than heavy breathing and the tickle of Gene's unruly hair against the edge of Sam's stubbled jaw.  
  
"Shit," Gene growled against the side of Sam's neck. It was a world gone topsy-turvy. Lips that should have drawn away pressed closer, dragging along Sam's jugular. The bridge of Gene's nose nudged and stroked behind his earlobe, the hand at his hip squeezing compulsively. Sam couldn't hold back a groan, bunching the fabric of Gene's shirt and flexing the muscles of his legs where they sandwiched dangerously with the other man's.  
  
As the sound escaped Sam's throat, Gene drew his head back so that they were face to face. It was so similar to that day in the basement, only their horizontal positions had Sam feeling dizzy. That and the feel of Gene pressed against every inch of him, filling the hollows and imposing himself everywhere just by virtue of his size alone. Drunken anger and indignation warred with lust in Gene's eyes, which were so close that Sam could discern the flecks of color even in the dim shaft of light filtering in from the hallway. He was sure the conflict was reflected in his own expression, but he didn't have much time to think on it because the bubble of uncertainty had broken and _ohhhhh Gene Hunt was bloody kissing him._  
  
Senses short-circuiting, Sam didn't even fully realize that he was kissing back until he tasted lingering smoke and the peppery peat of a good single malt as his tongue swept along the edges of Gene's teeth. Gene's tongue battled back, probing and stroking with characteristic boldness. Just as Sam began to sink into the kiss, accepting, opening himself further, he felt Gene's muscles tighten and their mouths broke apart with a mingling of ragged indrawn breaths. Seemingly unable to help himself, Gene dove back in for another kiss, pressing in hard and scraping his teeth over Sam's bottom lip.  
  
When they came up for air again, Sam became dimly aware that Gene's gloved hand had slid up under the fabric of his vest, stroking along his torso and cradling his ribcage. Gene's face above him was tortured, tense. Sam squirmed, gasping as his burgeoning arousal once again met Gene's answering hardness. Gene swore under his breath, expression darkening.  
  
"Like this don't you, you prick-teasing little fairy?"  
  
Sam could barely manage a reply, arching his back as the intruding hand slid up a bit further and Gene's gloved thumb and forefinger pinched and rolled one of Sam's nipples. He stifled a yelp, rolling his hips and challenging Gene's troubled gaze with honey-dark eyes that were suddenly far more sure. "Something tells me you like it too, _Guv._ "  
  
Legs entwined, Sam reveled in the answering grind of Gene's pelvis against his own, the fabric between them teasing with unholy friction. "Zip it, Tyler, or I'll find another way to keep that mouth quiet."  
  
Gene swiftly contradicted himself by launching into yet another unrelenting kiss, and Sam finally possessed enough alertness to get his own hands in on the action. Dimly realizing that he should probably care that it was nearly three o'clock in the morning and he was rolling around on the floor with another man, the door to his flat still slightly ajar, Sam deemed these niggling facts unimportant when compared with the irresistible reality of Gene Hunt surrounding him. He wound his fingers into Gene's thick hair, deepening the contact of their mouths as he felt an insistent hand yanking at the fastenings of his trousers.  
  
Sam's hands traveled restlessly downward, scrambling and tugging at the too-many-layers of Gene's clothing and searching for the forbidden warmth of bare skin. He finally got one hand up under the back of Gene's shirt, fingers dragging along firm flesh and feeling the enticing twitch of strained muscle. Sam fell out of the dizzying kiss, unable to sustain the contact when faced with the unbelievable sensation of a leather-clad hand closing over his erection with a grip that was just the right side of too firm.  
  
"F-- _fuck_ , Gene!" Neck arching and head banging against the floor, Sam released a choked groan. Gene's only response was to stroke him from root to tip, palming insistently at Sam's cock and teasing the head with his thumb. Wildly aroused, Sam squirmed and grasped at Gene, disentangling one of his legs and wrapping it around the larger man's waist to drag him even closer.  
  
It was too much. Sam didn't know whether he wanted to press his whole body up into Gene's or get his hand around Gene's trapped erection or if he simply wanted to grapple erotically and tangle tongues with him until long after the sun rose over the horizon to break the comforting disguise of night. As much as it surprised Sam that such an oddly romantic thought would enter his mind at a time like this, he knew it was not the time for tenderness. Decided, he pressed his hand between their bodies to fumble with Gene's belt buckle, scraping his teeth over the expanse of neck that presented itself to his hungry mouth.  
  
Right when he thought he was making some headway, tugging at the waistband of Gene's underpants and feeling the heat of the hardness beneath his questing fingers, Sam emitted a frustrated cry as his hand was slapped away. Gene growled and released his grip on Sam's achingly stiff cock, wrestling the smaller man's arms above his head and pinning them there in a vice-like hold. Sam fought back halfheartedly, bucking towards Gene rather than trying to escape. He shivered at the searing brush of Gene's whisky-warm lips against his ear.  
  
"Just gagging to get your hands on my equipment aren't you, Tyler?" Gene shifted, enabling Sam to tug his lower half closer using his legs. They shared a ragged gasp as their unclothed erections brushed against each other for the first time. "It's nothing compared to the things I wanna do to you. Sweet effin' _Christ,_ I want…" He trailed off with a groan and mouthed at the sensitive skin just below the line of Sam's jaw.  
  
The two men quickly found the perfect angle, the ideal level of pressure. Their straining cocks slid together, hips thrusting and bodies undulating in a wild and lascivious struggle. Gene's grip on his wrists slackened and Sam was able to get one arm free, immediately slinging it low around Gene's waist to pull him in harder. Steadying himself with the hand that was pinning Sam's to the floor, Gene pressed his other leather-clad palm against the tensed muscles where Sam's shoulder connected to his neck, thumb digging into the hollow above his collarbone.  
  
And then Gene's eyes were looking down into his, glowing jade and inky black in the moonlight. His face was so close that Sam couldn't be sure which one of them had made a desperate, animalistic sound. Their lips touched and that noise and the heat from Gene's gaze were swallowing him whole and Sam was lost, coming in violent surges and saying the other man's name over and over again. Then Gene was coming too, grinding his cock against Sam's and sliding one gloved thumb over Sam's lips to the side of his face, releasing a string of curse words that would have a whole fleet of sailors blushing to the tips of their toes.  
  
A long moment passed in near silence. Sam felt overwhelmed and sated, enjoying the press of Gene's sweat-slick forehead against his temple. He felt calmer than he had in ages; was this the sort of contentment he had hoped to find when he returned here? Sam wasn't sure, and for once he didn't have any desire to over-think things. Tentatively he reached over, pushing the tousled golden hair away from the side of Gene's face with gentle fingers and drinking in the other man's profile.  
  
Gene tensed, bowing his head over Sam's shoulder for a few slow moments before levering himself up into a sitting position. Sam was left laying on the floor, suddenly cold with his vest rucked up and his open trousers pushed down over his hips. The Guv seemed to stare at a random patch of carpet as his breathing calmed, and after a minute or two of pointedly avoiding eye contact Gene stumbled awkwardly to his feet. He tucked himself in and re-fastened his belt, patting his pockets in a familiar search for nicotine.  
  
Mirroring the other man's actions, Sam stood slowly. Even after righting his clothes he felt exposed and stripped of his defenses with his bare feet and thin cotton vest, especially compared against a fully-clothed Gene in trademark coat and suit. The comfortable silence had stretched into awkwardness, and Sam felt a pit of dread beginning to form in his stomach as Gene took a long drag on the softly glowing cigarette. He attempted to step into Gene's line of sight, testing the waters of what looked an awful lot like open hostility. "Gene, I--"  
  
Perhaps hostility was an understatement. Outright loathing seemed like a more accurate description of the expression on his superior officer's face. Unwilling to accept defeat so easily Sam stepped closer, raising a hand and reaching toward the other man's arm.  
  
Gene flinched away. "No. For _fuck's sake_ Sam, just… don't."  
  
And with one last scathing and oddly inscrutable glance in Sam's direction Gene was gone, stalking out of the flat without even giving Sam the satisfaction of a slamming door. Left alone, Sam could still feel the bruising-fresh imprint of Gene's fingers on his skin. Sinking slowly onto the bed, Sam's tormented eyes alighted on a tattered old book about boxing which sat innocently on the shelf. He picked it up and threw it across the room, cursing the so-called 'gentleman's sport' for getting him into this mess and wondering how the hell he was going to deal with the aftermath of what he and Gene had just done.  
  
  
 **xxxxx**

**xxxxx  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There were indeed Commonwealth Games held in New Zealand in the winter (summer, there I suppose) of 1974. I watched a documentary about them and everything. The film Sam remembered viewing with Maya in the future was _Munich_ , which was released in 2005.
> 
> Quotage: 
> 
> _'They can run, but they can't hide'_ Joe Louis  
>  _'If you even dream of beating me, you'd better wake up and apologize.'_ Muhammad Ali


End file.
